


A Cat In Gloves

by esoemp



Series: A Cat in Gloves [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bored Sherlock, Confused Sherlock, Dissociative Identity Disorder, F/M, POV Original Female Character, POV Sherlock Holmes, Patient John, Sherlock Holmes Has No Boundaries, psychological experiment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-18
Updated: 2017-01-18
Packaged: 2018-09-18 08:18:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 14,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9376433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esoemp/pseuds/esoemp
Summary: Sherlock obsesses over a lab tech's inexplicable behavior at a genetic research company and, out of boredom, continues to make trouble for her so he can pass the time. Samantha (OFC) has a secret she can't bear to have the detective deduce, and both end up with more than they bargained for.PS: There will be sex eventually, I promise.PPS: And I kind of had to bump Molly from this universe for it to work, because she's similar in character and competition for Samantha. Sorry! I wrote this without thinking of combining the two into a Sherlolly fic. Maybe someday I'll change that. As it is, my heart was in this fic when I wrote it.





	1. He Said You're Really An Ugly Girl

**Author's Note:**

> My friend who writes JohnLock inspired me to write this book & suggested I post it here. It’s pretty much finished now at around 77,000+ words—just going through the process of corrections, etc.. I hadn't planned on it being so long, I thought it would top out at 7 pages and was really meant only to pass the time.
> 
> But then I had no idea how much fun writing was (I lost my virginity with this one) and I’d like to continue. I wish I could write Johnlock but frankly I suck at it- no pun intended. So ideas for future projects or suggestions are welcome—there are a LOT more sex scenes I want to write in the future and I'm going to need lots of practice. For science. 
> 
> For now I wrote about Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID). The titles in my chapters are taken from lyrics written by Tori Amos, a songstress who has saved my life and my sanity on more than one occasion. The title of the book is from the old adage, “A cat in gloves catches no mice”.
> 
> Lastly, I know this isn't great writing, but I appreciate you taking the time to read it & offer feedback!

It was 3 in the afternoon when the infamous Detective Sherlock Holmes and his companion Doctor John Watson entered the lab. Samantha immediately swiveled her chair in the opposite direction towards her desk, hoping desperately to blend in with the background. She half-heartedly attended to the exchange between the two men and her not-boss Alan—who looked entirely out of his element in light of the detective’s verbal assault. Her heart ached a little for her cohort, but she was relieved enough at being excluded from the conversation to feel uncompelled to intervene on his behalf. Alan stood up to Holmes’ scrutiny as well as anyone could be expected in light of his failure to produce worthwhile results in a more timely manner—or something or other. Samantha was really only listening to the cadence of the detective’s voice, the way it rose and fell in derision. She tried not to pay attention to the less interesting parts, which included Alan’s slur of incredulous and defensive stammering in the opposite corner of the room. After several minutes she became bored and re-focused her energy into looking busy and _not_ noticeable.    

 _Why why WHY today_ of all days had she been asked to remain in the lab? This internship was only supposed to be part time still she found herself spending more days and nights here than she cared to remember. Only a few days after she arrived and began the task of cataloguing the infinite numbers of charts and test results the staff determined she was rather brighter than expected. They explained to her how greatly they appreciated her enthusiasm and trained her on numerous additional jobs, effectively replacing many of the other paid employees’ shifts.

 _“Paid employees_ ,” she grumbled coarsely.

Without warning she sensed a pause in the conversation and stiffened, holding her breath until it resumed. Samantha quickly dedicated herself to organizing her test samples—a task which required considerably less concentration than trying to remain invisible. Within a few moments she was in her state of bliss categorizing them and making quick notes as to which steps would be required in a procedure…solving riddles…mixing compounds… finding the cure for cancer…

 _Gunpowder_.

_Gunpowder?_

“Gloves.” A distinctly baritone voice thundered, “ _Why_?”

Dreamily, she turned her head upwards into the menacing countenance of one Mr. Sherlock Holmes. His bright blue eyes challenged her with intensity and she held her breath, completely captivated by his features. Even in this frightening visage the man was drop dead gorgeous. She blinked as her mind churned out a dazzling array of discarded ideas as to how she should answer. _Fuck_. This was _so much worse_ than she’d imagined. And she’d imagined _observing_ this man often in the days preceding his arrival. But now here he was in the flesh. If the blood hadn’t drained from her face she was certain she would have been blushing. 

Samantha was reasonably attractive, but certainly not charismatic enough to warrant the attention of the Mr. Tall Dark and Brilliant she’d read about in the papers and on John Watson’s blog. She had spent many a night in between classes and her work at the lab pouring over their exploits and reveling in the solving of mysteries. Sherlock Holmes was by far too clever for his own good, and she found the idea of him charming. Which was what it was. An idea. If she’d learned anything in her short life on this earth, the fact that reality was never as good as fantasy had been that. While she wanted to _watch_ Mr. Holmes in action on a case, she didn’t kid herself into thinking it was a particularly _good_ idea to _actually_ catch his attention.

In fact Samantha had lost her nerve in the hours after the office staff announced his arrival and planned to leave right after she’d finished her work. But the Legendary “Detective Doom” had everyone scurrying away from their desks early—and ordering her to remain. “For training purposes.” Ha. Perhaps they thought she wouldn’t be worth his notice either, she thought bitterly.

As it stood, her plan to remain as innocuous as possible had been thwarted, and she was very much on display for an apparel inspection by Detective Sherlock Holmes.

“Alan, I realize your division is running rather low on funding, but this gawping woman here…” the detective gestured to Samantha’s pinkening face and slackened jaw, “does not appear to be able to formulate human speech.”

“Jesus, Sherlock, you just surprised her while she was working. Give her a minute,” Dr. Watson offered with an apologetic, but meaningfully encouraging, glance at Samantha, who received it gratefully and took the opportunity to close her mouth.

Gathering what few wits she had left, Samantha let her eyes wander down to her feet before muttering nonsensically about how _this was a lab so of course she’d wear gloves—_ knowing full well such a lame attempt at humor wouldn’t cut it with this man, who by all accounts seemed entirely devoid of the concept.

Unmoved by her obvious plea for clemency his jaw dropped open, either startled by her absurd notion of comedy or by her sheer audacity for attempting to manipulate him. The corner of his upper lip twitched in disgust and became a thin line of resignation. In what seemed less than a millisecond to Samantha, Sherlock Holmes made a decision to act. With obvious disdain he grabbed her chin between his index finger and thumb and pulled his eyes within inches of her own. “LEA-THER. GL-OVES. WHY?” His bark came out in deliberately slow intonations for the presumably deaf and dumb girl who turned several shades redder between his ridiculously long fingers.

Samantha couldn’t help but notice he was wearing leather gloves himself and considered whether turnabout was fair game seeing as how she had the obvious home court advantage. After all _he_ had come into _her_ workplace to harass _her_ non-boss Alan, and being deprived of whatever amusement that should have brought him he was then _actually touching_ her person while yelling about her fashion choices…she was every inch within her right to say something…Do something… _anything_ …to fight back the tears that moistened her eyes under his scrutiny and hide her embarrassment.

_Mmmm...Why not give him the shock of his life… give those fingers of his a little nibble and suck? See if that doesn’t get a better reaction from him…bet he’d get so hard he’d have to leave you alone long enough to go jerk off in the bathroom while you made your escape…_

Suddenly she felt a jolt of arousal wash through her body followed by a wave of despair. We were getting into “too far” territory here. Samantha felt her blood spike with alarm as she teetered on the edge of sanity.

_FUCK. NO. Shut UP Angela. Not here. Not now. I mean…Please… not now._

But Samantha could feel herself sinking into the blissful miasma that held the promise of release. She wanted it so badly this time too. She didn’t want to speak anymore, didn’t want to be in _this_ room with _this_ man _touching her_. He was obviously revolted and was only trying to terrorize her into answering his inappropriate and unnecessary question. His expression was unforgiving, and so she would have to make up an explanation… an _acceptably good_ one for this particular man or he’d never let her go unscathed.

Samantha spent the better half of her life living as though she had germophobia. Her friends, professors, bosses and non-bosses recognized the disorder for what it was because she was an asset to them. Or had the decency not to pursue her disclosure with interrogation. Her leather gloves drew stares and cleared throats, but as long as she wore nitrile gloves over them when handling experiments she was mostly unhindered in her work. In fact, the leather actually provided more shielding against an inadvertent needle prick, she reasoned. Not that she’d been allowed to play with those yet. She didn’t wear gloves every day—citing better days than others to explain away any inquisitive or sympathetic looks.

But today was different. She needed her armor because _he_ was coming into her world. Never had there been a more expedient time than this afternoon to keep her consciousness grounded. It had occurred to her the detective would notice her gloves, but the notion he would pursue his inquiry with this much fervor was unimaginable. While the general masses might take her germophobia at face value, this man would not.

 _He would know she was lying._ And expose her secrets to the world as he had so many countless others in his wake.

 _Oh God…Then they would all know_ , and there’d be no place she could hide…

Samantha’s field of vision became cloudy…she was holding on so hard. She reminded herself what would happen if she let go—goodbye unpaid job experience and grad school. There would be no turning back from the rejection—the horror of coming back into herself to see what _she’d_ wrought would be too much to bear and she’d have to move to another country again…

 _“Off…BACK OFF SHERLOCK…For Christ’s sake look at her eyes!”_ came an authoritative voice from the background—presumably that of Dr. Watson.

 _Oh that sweet, sweet man. A_ _savior_. The sound of his voice followed by the detective’s release of her face snapped her consciousness back together just in time. Dr. Watson’s hand rested lightly on her shoulder squeezing in assurance. She sat up a bit and blinked until her eyes refocused.

“It was just a bloody question, John!” the detective blurted defensively, almost petulantly, but the glare from his companion quieted him into grudging silence at last.

“Alright, love, look at me,” the doctor urged while he leaned closer angling to get a look at her eyes and removing a pen flashlight from his pocket. “You can call me John, what’s yours?”

“Samantha.” Her voice was so small. So distant.

“Samantha? That’s a lovely name…There, that’s it, look up…Now down. Follow the light now… _good…_ ” Samantha couldn’t help from smiling faintly at his concern. How many times had she heard this from doctors and nurses again? It was always the same routine, they give their name, ask _our_ name (and pray it’s Samantha), look up, look down, flashlight in eyes, follow flashlight with eyes…more questions.

John was undeniably attractive man in his own right, but more importantly Samantha thought he might be a good man. His eyes were so very kind and full of compassion. Although she felt safer under John’s scrutiny (it was ok to call him John now right?) rather than the detective’s, she knew she wasn’t out of the woods yet. At least with the way things were progressing now she was more likely to pass off her eccentricity looking stupid in front of the detective rather than “fire-able” in front of him and Alan. Detective Holmes continued to cast _entirely-not-too-thinly-veiled_ glances in her direction, assessing her. Based on what she’d read about the man’s deduction skills online God only knew what he’d learned already…

Finally having resigned herself to the hopeful fate of imbecile, Samantha took a deep breath before exhaling the words, “Thank you, John. I’m alright now.” She smiled wanly before she turned towards the detective—who had taken to pacing fanatically and glaring at her ever since John had snapped his own set of orders allowing for her release.

“Detective Holmes,” she began with less enthusiasm and a bit robotically, “I am sorry for the trouble. I wear gloves because I have Mysophobia. I panicked at being touched suddenly but I’m alright now. Please forgive my rudeness.” Samantha hoped with palpable desperation she’d be able to pass off this ridiculousness convincingly given that most germophobes don’t voluntarily choose to work in labs.

Apparently the absurdity was not lost on the detective either, but before he could utter words of reproach, John stood up suddenly and grabbed at his partner’s arm, pivoting him and then almost dragging him away from her. John waved goodbye hastily, thanked Alan for his understanding and expressed apologies for interrupting important work, and within moments they were both gone. As the doors closed she could hear the detective’s audible protestations of the manhandling of his person and she began to relax. Samantha looked first at Alan’s questioning face then her desk, before craning her neck to the ceiling and uttering a long exasperated groan as she slumped her head into her hands in almost total relief and oddly… a feeling of more dread than she’d anticipated for someone who was never, _ever_ planning to come into contact with either the detective or his companion again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title taken from Tori Amos' "Precious Things"


	2. But I Like The Way You Play

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unanswered questions are unacceptable to Sherlock...

“Did you SEE that John?!” Sherlock exclaimed joyously into his partner’s left ear. He was almost dancing around John now, whose short frame hunched over appearing distinctly more irritated than usual after his friend did or said something grossly inappropriate to a complete stranger.

Sherlock knew John’s many “Sherlock, That Was Not Good” mannerisms. John’s scowl fell categorically into that realm. But why couldn’t John _see_? He knew that he’d crossed a line with the young intern, but it didn’t matter because he’d discovered something NEW because of it and NEW was like oxygen to his starving brain.

John didn’t acknowledge his visibly escalating excitement. Sherlock felt very much like an overexcited puppy jumping around John’s feet for attention. That bordered on embarrassing, so he took the plunge and asked again, knowing his companion would have to snap before John could _finally listen_.

“John,” he ventured again blithely as they made their way back to the flat through some of London’s busier streets, “ it’s not as though she isn’t alright.” John wasn’t even looking at him. “And besides,” Sherlock continued ruefully, “she was wearing _leather gloves in a LAB!_ I thought at first it was simply to cover a horrific disfigurement. But if so she could have easily removed the gloves and _showed_ me. I would have released her then of course and we could have moved on without incident.” Then he stopped, pausing for effect, before asking with something of an impatiently masked wince, “Thoughts, John?”

John’s gait came to an abrupt halt before rounding on his partner and spitting, “What I SAW? What I SAW Sherlock, was you coming this close to causing a complete mental collapse in what seemed to me an otherwise stable woman before you entered the room!”

“Oh, she is most certainly _NOT_ stable” Sherlock interjected sarcastically with a smirk.

“Pot.” John shot back before turning again to resume his pace. Then, thinking better of it, turned back to jab his finger in Sherlock’s chest. “ _You_ know how it feels to not want to be touched, I can’t believe you’re so daft you can’t give others the same consideration.”

 _Ah. There it was._ Finally John unleashed his personal attack—which probably should have stung but in actuality were the words that signaled he was halfway through this battle of teaching Sherlock morals and closer to discussing _The Work_. Reveling in the triumph of “John’s Defeat by Personal Attack” and in a vain attempt at looking at least somewhat ashamed, Sherlock needled with exasperation, “But she’s ok…”

“You’re bloody lucky she’s ok Sherlock. Or at least your definition of ‘ok’,” he blasted derisively before John’s tone softened, and continued. “I haven’t seen a PTSD episode like that since the army, and you know how I feel about it. What were you thinking putting your hands on her like that? I know you _think_ you were taking her pulse to see if she was lying, but still, even you…” He trailed off, looking at Sherlock expectantly, hopefully.

“She _WAS_ lying,” he answered him smugly; fully aware this wasn’t what John wanted to hear. Sherlock resented John’s inability to understand his compulsion to discover _why_ she was lying. Furthermore he didn’t care to impress upon John the absolute necessity of remaining “objectively sociopathic”—John’s pet name for Sherlock’s behavior in the presence of idiots.

Sherlock hoped he would be excused from having to placate or imitate John’s standards of sentimentality to earn his cooperation on cases one day. He made a mental note to sound kinder for John’s sake. He needed John’s help with this latest investigation. Given John’s own history with PTSD he wasn’t likely to be a willing accomplice. IF that’s what was wrong with Miss Intern…He suspected it was something much darker though he couldn’t pin point why…yet. And seeing as how he’d already solved the case they’d originally gone to the lab to verify, he’d have to come up with another reason to go and investigate her again.

Sherlock made a little list of his deductions aloud for John’s benefit so far. “Badge: Samantha Jones. 27, maybe 28 years old given the healthy quality of her skin and choice in length of hairstyle. Wearing 2.5” ‘proper professional heels’. _Obviously_ single. Too much wear on heels so I’d average they are probably 6 years old, worn mostly on laboratory floors. Hem of skirt coming apart, wash  & wear poly blend hence not much money. Probably the only one in her closet. Intern equals grad student budget… _Clearly_ American. Note her accent and abhorrent fashion sense—really John! A tight tee shirt that says “Shut up  & Watch Me Science” was peaking through her lab coat! Interests include genetics and apparently string theory—I’m sure _that’s_ hard for her,” he added with dripping sarcasm. “Unless those textbooks and lab journals were for show. Edges and pages were worn though so probably not or bought used…” Sherlock’s mind worked furiously on a method of attack. “Gloves _not_ normal. Unless she’s shy about the disfigurement, which I highly doubt given it can’t possibly be there. Refer to earlier statement in that regard. Definitely knew who I was because she made several unconsciously veiled attempts to get my attention.”

“Nice arse,” John added helpfully with a grin and received Sherlock’s overly experienced eye roll at such observations. John was still trying to add humor to his rather uncomfortable realization Sherlock was not going to simply let this woman _be_. John had long since stopped arguing against his partner when Sherlock had what John coined “fits of maniacal data gathering” and slumped his shoulders approximately 2cms—a visible sign of acquiescence. “Already solved the case then—I mean the real case, the reason we went there in the first place?”

“Yes, _of course_ it’s solved. You know we didn’t need to go to the lab to confirm my assertions about the analysis, but you just kept insisting so we went.” And because the petri dishes in the fridge had to wait another 4 hours. Sherlock wondered whether another arrest could be made on the basis of this evidence before tomorrow. The detectives at the yard were so… _slow_. “John,” he paused briefly. “Did you really not see her eyes?”

“What? Yes, of course I did. They were dilated like saucers when you grabbed her face. Poor lass almost blacked out from shock.”

Sherlock grinned broadly, finally able to get to the heart of the mystery. “No, her eyes, John. She had near perfect vision when I first examined her. No glasses at her station remember? But then the ciliary muscles of her eyes began to expand and contract in an effort to obtain a differential accommodation before shifting in pseudomyopia. Seeing as how she’s worked in the lab for years she should no longer be presenting symptoms.” He waved his hands expectantly.

“I hate to tell you this Sherlock,” John sighed, “But that isn’t that unusual. Especially given that it was _you_ holding her hostage. Parasympathetic nervous system response to arousal hmm?”

Ignoring John’s taunt that this woman appeared to be sexually aroused, Sherlock continued. “You were standing on my left but the light in the room was the same. In a split second her left pupil was mydriatic and the right became miotic.” John’s little brain clearly wasn’t processing the data fast enough. “It was as though her refractive index was changing before my very eyes John! Are you saying that it’s common for a person to go from being near sighted to farsighted in a matter of minutes before returning to normal? What about the varying microexpressions which coincided with symptoms of bradycardia and tachycardia?”

“I don’t know Sherlock I wasn’t the one holding her neck. And developing abnormal heart rhythms or changes in visual acuity that suddenly disappear is physically impossible. Her pulse regulated to normal when I took it and there were no signs of either. You must have made a mistake.”

“Her skin temperature changed.”

“Gloves Sherlock, you were wearing gloves. And you were scaring her to death.”

Finally overcome with annoyance Sherlock uttered triumphantly, “ _But she was wearing gloves. In a lab. And she was lying. To me.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In some cases of dissociation it is not uncommon for patients' visual acuity to change depending on which alter or persona is inhabiting the body, along with changes in heart arrhythmia and body temperature. 
> 
> Title taken from Tori Amos' "Precious Things"


	3. Holding On to His Picture, Dressing Up Everyday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Samantha struggles to stay present after her encounter with Detective Holmes...

_God DAMMIT!_ Samantha cursed as she shut down her station for the day—dramatically slamming drawers and then stubbing her toe. Alan had already left, _thank God_ , but he’d been hovering over like some sort of bumblebee ever since the detective and doctor left. Samantha knew how Alan felt about her. Standing just a bit too close for too long over her station wasn’t exactly sexual harassment and it was nice to get _some_ attention from the opposite sex, even if the tall strawberry blonde non-boss wasn’t the sort to “trip her trigger” as one of her Texas friends used to say. Alan wasn’t a weakly sort but he seemed to believe the day’s earlier affair proved too good an excuse not to show Samantha how sensitive to her needs he truly was. Alan grumbled many times assertively as to what he’d do if given the chance to defend her honor against “that bastard Holmes” should the opportunity ever present itself again. Not that he’d said anything at all when it was happening. Samantha vaguely remembered Alan stood somewhere out of the corner of her periphery during the episode, agape with awe and fear and jealousy.

 _Ridiculous. Just ridiculous_. She should never have been at work today. She had certainly known the detective would notice her gloves and yet she’d thought she would simply be dismissed as “just another weird American with shitty fashion sense”. But oh no, she just had to catch a glimpse of her Legendary Detective. And like some horrible high school sitcom she’d managed to do it in true Samantha-fashion.

It had been so long since she had an episode, even longer since she’d actually switched to one of her other personas completely. The longer she’d gone without slipping up the more she hoped the last one was really the last.

 _Really sweet cheeks? Did you really believe any of the bullshit you just said?_ Angela’s voice chided her with a wicked giggle. _Did you see his eyes? So blue and…raw! He saw mine. Please… just let me have a little fun. I’ll have you back before sunrise I promise…_ Samantha suddenly realized she was licking her lips.

“No fucking way” Samantha murmured, shaking her head vigorously as she quickened her pace in an effort to get home faster. She could not have this discussion with herself. Not even when she got home to safety of her bedroom. Even entertaining the idea of a tryst with the detective after that stunt reeked of career suicide. He was too high profile for the impending disaster to go unnoticed by the public…and FUCK!! Why was she even _thinking_ about it? He’d been utterly repulsed by her lack of courage or intelligence. She was a career woman now goddammit. Not some teenager in heat. And certainly not attracted to someone as heartless as Sherlock Holmes.

Now that Dr. John on the other hand…he was a much more suitable candidate for her interests. He was about her height but built like a military brick house, all thick muscles and wound tight…he’d definitely be gentle with _her_ though. Wait. FUCK. FUCK. FUCK. _That sneaky bitch_. Her ears grew hot and she could hear laughter in the recesses of her mind, an inaudible “ _I told you so…_ ” Instinctually Samantha squeezed the leather around her fingers and palms in an effort to calm herself. She’d chosen her softest burgundy gloves that morning because it was “Awesome Shirt Wednesday”. They were her favorite daytime pair because they made her feel like she could have been an equestrian or maybe a motorcyclist in another life. The gloves themselves weren’t magical in any way, of course. But Angela hated them, calling them gauche and tacky. Samantha had to admit Angela was right. Each one had a phone number permanently inked inside; just in case they were lost and someone might be kind enough to return them to her and perhaps provide a clue as to where she’d been. This method of repression naturally wasn’t entirely fool proof (she had to take them off to bathe and wash her hands of course) but the gloves that started off as a talisman against switching as a juvenile had turned into her shield against her darker side and the world that frightened her. As long as she had them, she felt mostly indestructible. And no one, not even that arrogant prick of a detective, was going to make her give that feeling of security up. Absently she began pushing her thumb against the divot in the seam of her right wrist. _Almost home._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Tori Amos' "Precious Things"


	4. Police Yourself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Idle hands...

“BORED.” Sherlock strode back and forth purposefully around the small flat he shared with John Watson. “So. Bloody. BORED!”

“Have a cuppa then,” John offered dismissively as he turned another page of the newspaper. This only served to increase the speed of Sherlock’s dramatic shuffling. Sherlock hummed audibly then huffed out a soft whimper as he careened ungracefully into his favorite chair.

“Then go outside. Play your violin. Go have another bloody fag if that will get you to stop fidgeting. Yes, I know you’ve had one, and I know where you keep them. You’re going to give me another ulcer. You’ve been at this since yesterday.” Suddenly John looked up with concern. “ _Have_ you slept since yesterday?”

Sherlock shot his friend an irritable look before inclining his neck towards the ceiling in an effort to obtain respite from stupid people. It had been 3 days since he began his investigation into the life of the boring Miss Intern. Not that John knew. He had to pull this off just right so his friend the doctor and war veteran wouldn’t evade his responsibility when presented with his role. Granted the “mystery of the pointless gloves” wasn’t a top priority. But oddly Sherlock found the idea of baiting this liar of a woman into revealing who she really was had taken on a sort of pet project vibe to his ever busy brain. Surely she was no one important, but then in his line of work you could never be too sure. No. That’s not a good enough line to use on John. Even poor John could see this woman was no threat, so he’d have to do better. Naturally, she had no security clearance to speak of and therefore no reason to request Mycroft do any digging into her history. If he couldn’t even persuade John to believe he wasn’t infatuated with the intern he could only imagine what Mycroft would have to say on the matter. Well. The best course of action would be to somehow find himself in the lab once again with a believable excuse that didn’t involve overt observation. And of course John. “Hmmm..”

“For God sake Sherlock what do you want?” Came John’s exasperated reply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title taken from Tori Amos' "Police Me"


	5. I’m Freezing That Frame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back to the lab

As it turned out Sherlock didn’t have to wait long before obtaining a legitimate reason to show up at the lab again—thus absolving him from any guilt for paying too much attention to one of the many hundreds of pet projects he had circulating in his brain under the heading “in-case-of-boredom-break-glass”. Sherlock had been careful not to announce his visit this time so as not to alert anyone of his observational plan of action. He was determined to demonstrate his “best behavior” today for John and Miss Intern. If possible he might be able to stomach the idea of offering some semblance of reconciliation and apology.

But as he entered the lab his intended target of observation was distressingly absent. Annoyed, Sherlock bustled past Alan. The lab manager was exhibiting the most ridiculous impersonation of an alpha gorilla he’d ever seen. The light was on above the sample tray, at Miss Intern’s station, casting gentle highlights on a stack of completely unrelated work materials. He nudged one aside on astrophysics to reveal a copy of _Psychology Today_ magazine. His grin widened considerably at this discovery. _Bored easily, Miss Jones?_ He questioned with some satisfaction before he heard the lab doors swing open.

Miss Intern gave a little gasp at the lab’s unanticipated occupants. Teetering backwards in an abortive attempt to escape unnoticed, the two coffees she held in her hands tipped forward. Gorilla Alan took a step forward to catch one of her arms—which only added to Intern’s haste to move in the opposite direction. _So, it’s like that is it?_ She issued another gasp as John managed to wrap his arms just above her waist thereby preventing her downward fall and allowing the coffees to splatter on the floor unceremoniously. Sherlock regarded the pair in amusement. This was almost too perfect. The blush on both Intern and John’s cheeks as he held her in his arms was so deliciously cliché he allowed himself to issue a little chuckle.

“Right then, John,” Sherlock declared triumphantly. “Let us be on our way!”

An insufferable amount of time passed as the two lab techs cleaned up the mess while John made gratuitous and unnecessary apologies first to Intern and then Gorilla. Finally, he and John made their way into the street to hail a cab. “Aren’t you forgetting something John?” Sherlock mused aloud in a deliberately coy undertone. John stood dumbly for a moment wide eyed in question and Sherlock persevered gamely, “ _Her_ _number_?”

John, seemingly shocked at his own ineptitude, darted back towards the lab—leaving Sherlock to marvel once more at his own tolerance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title taken from Tori Amos' "Gold Dust"


	6. Bold Enough

Samantha did everything she could to hide her beams of joy from Alan after he watched her give the Good Doctor John her number. She didn’t want to hurt Alan, but it was also high time he gave up his endeavors for her attention. Knowing this was for his own good and guiltily acknowledging his beseeching eyes were two totally different things, so she suggested they call it a night. This way he wouldn’t have to suffer seeing her eyes glitter as she suppressed smiles and considered carefully whether John would still have his fatigues and dog tags. Even as she tucked her books into her carryall and skipped out the door she marveled at her extraordinary luck. For all intents and purposes John appeared to be a normal, albeit slightly more chivalrous than normal, man. What interest he might have in a lab geek in gloves perplexed her, but she was too high on the adrenaline and attention to care enough to examine it further.

 _Careful my love, he will find out soon enough why._ Angela’s voice cooed in her ear with only the slightest edge. _Do let me have a go before it’s too late._

Suppressing a shiver and ignoring Angela’s taunt, Samantha hurried home to revel in her accomplishment. Even if it was for a little while it was ok to dream of a normal life with a normal man right? Involuntarily she clenched her fingers together to hear the squeak of the leather in her palms. Her thumbs fingered at the seam again reflexively as though it could rid itself of the bondage for only a moment. Samantha startled a bit at the sudden chill on her palms and squeezed tighter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title Taken from Tori Amos' "Fire to Your Plain"


	7. Watching You Watching Her Play This Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock watches as his experiment unfolds.

“And you _really_ don’t care about the gloves?” Sherlock balked incredulously when John announced he was leaving for his date with absolutely no intention of addressing the issue.

“No, I don’t. Besides I think they’re cute.” John retaliated firmly, before adding, “And sexy. Besides, I thought _you_ wanted me to ask her out.”

Sherlock sized up the situation and decided to let John’s independence slide in the interest of continuing the investigation. “Yes, quite right, John. It is none of my business and I hope you have a wonderful time.”

John eyed his flat mate warily and grabbed his favorite tweed jacket on his way out the door.

“Thank you Sherlock,” adding wryly, “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“Do let me know how it goes.” Sherlock blithely ventured.

“Know I won’t,” called John as he shut the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title taken from Tori Amos' "Fire to Your Plain"


	8. Buckle Up Girls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Buckle up girls, we're stealing the night...

John was incredibly charming in his jacket, which set off his sandy hair and hazel eyes perfectly. Samantha exhaled a little sigh as he came wandering up to her in front of the restaurant from across the street. She noted his awkwardly nervous gait before allowing her gaze to drift back upward. She impulsively reached out to shake his hand then suppressed a giggle. John bowed his head a bit knowingly then put one arm around her waist to lead her inside. He carried himself with more confidence and proffered an easy smile as he slid out her chair at the table. Samantha was sporting her new electric blue suede gloves, which she hoped brought out the color of her eyes. She tugged at her semi-short skirt, ruffled at the hem, before glancing down at her ankle length booties. She was really hoping she didn’t come across as too flirty or _God forbid_ even slutty. She was going to do this _right_ this time. No fuckups allowed. Dinner then home before 10:30 like a nice girl. _No contributions from Angela_. With this game plan in mind she smiled her most dazzling smile, gearing herself up for the best night of her life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title taken from Tori Amos' "Fire to Your Plain"


	9. Remote Viewing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Perhaps the answer to the question lies in the question.

“You’re home early,” Sherlock observed.

John chucked his favorite jacket over a chair looking disgruntled and bewildered. His body had assumed a somewhat defensive position upon entry. _Breathing uncharacteristically off kilter for the sly ladies man…must not have gone as well as he’d hoped. Blushing slightly...could be fun to have a rib…_ Sherlock continued to take stock of his roommate’s tells, feeling somewhat disappointed. Obviously the time of his return indicated John hadn’t been able to pull off those “sexy” gloves of hers. _Poor sot_ , Sherlock thought with uncharacteristic sympathy.

“Don’t. Ask.” John muttered before plodding towards his bedroom in defeat, his frustration all too evident.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title take from Tori Amos' "Police Me"


	10. Every Cell Has Been Taught To Think

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the date...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title taken from Tori Amos' "Police Me"

Samantha was feeling exceptionally good about herself. She entertained John with interesting conversation, some mild flirting, no kiss goodnight, and managed to keep all her clothes on and arrive to her flat to sleep in her own bed. _Blissfully normal_. Congrats were in order as she rolled down the sheets before snuggling under the covers.

_Don’t kid yourself sweetie. You were bored out of your FUCKIN MIND._

“And since when have you been the voice of reason?” Samantha countered Angela aloud in frustration. “It was nice. He was nice.”

_Too nice. You know what he wanted. A full blooded man like that. You could never satisfy him._

Tears began to cloud her eyes. Samantha was so…frustrated. And in more ways than one. As much as she hated to admit it, Angela was right. She would never be able to satisfy John. And, even if she could make it past the initial stages of physical affection, she certainly couldn’t partake in romance after dark because keeping Angela at bay meant she had _curfew_. _What adult woman has flippin curfew??_ She thought bitterly. Unfortunately, Angela was right on the other count as well. Nice guys weren’t the ones who could truly satisfy her. John _was_ nice and she knew he didn’t just want sex, but he was probably confused by her mixed signals. Meaningfully, she examined her gloves and pondered whether it was time take a risk and go have a little fun for a change. She was feeling a bit drunk from the wine at dinner and she might never be able to sleep after Angela’s words of truth rang in her ears.

“You ruin everything Angela,” Samantha said cruelly.

_We’ll see… mon coeur. Won’t we…_

For a moment Samantha thought she detected the slightest bit of sadness in Angela’s words before rolling over in a violent huff to face the wall, all the more determined to silence her aching heart and what was developing into a pounding headache. As she began to drift off to sleep murmuring… _Fuck. My. Life_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The point here isn't to say John Watson isn't a lovely date--more that Samantha, through Angela, is struggling to be honest with herself about trying to be "normal".


	11. Perhaps the Answer to the Question Lies in the Question

John and Miss Intern hadn’t made any effort to have anything more to do with one another for five days and counting. Sherlock’s matchmaking plan had failed.

 

Surprisingly John bounced back relatively quickly after his unsuccessful date—albeit several hours later than Sherlock deemed necessary. Sherlock’s annoyance at John’s lack of courage to contact the woman had resulted in voluminous sighs of irritation on his part, which went totally unnoticed by John _as usual_. John wasn’t _listening_ to _him_ for several hours while his dopey mind went through the emotions of perceived rejection and wandered hopefully toward his phone every 45 and a half minutes. Not the worst case of love sickness. John just wasn’t “that into her” either as the kids say.

 

Naturally this ruined Sherlock’s plans to figure out exactly what bothered _him_ about Miss Intern and so an alternative means of discovery was indeed warranted. He would have to take matters into his own hands and elected to go on his own. After all, he thought in mock conscientiousness, John was his best friend and it was up to him to help his flat mate sort this romantic conundrum out.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title take from Tori Amos' "Police Me"


	12. What My Mistake Was

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock decides to take matters into his own hands. He's never been one for patience.

In the time it took for the cab to reach its destination, Sherlock prepared a number of scenarios as to how he should approach the matter. Assuming Miss Intern wasn’t alone in the lab Sherlock would have to be especially careful not to incur the wrath of her primitive cohort. Not that it really mattered. Lost in his reverie he wondered if Miss Intern would have another stack of reading materials at her station. It wasn’t as though Intern was terribly interesting. He was just so damnably bored he reasoned and perhaps she was as well—why else would she have such an odd assortment of interests? Sherlock concluded that while Intern was indisputably _not_ clever enough to keep up with him intellectually by _any_ stretch of the imagination she was at the very least somewhat interesting given her penchant for lying to him and wearing those ridiculous gloves. Yes. That line of reasoning was acceptable.

 

As Sherlock approached the lab he discovered Miss Intern’s newest interests quite before he’d anticipated. It was customary for him have at his disposal a plethora of tactics and contingency strategies should one fail but seeing her before him so abruptly was unexpected nonetheless and he found himself ducking into the shade of a nearby tree.

 

Intern was sitting almost primly on a bench outside the lab under an oak tree reading a book about Buddhism or some other such religious nonsense. Abruptly she glanced up from her perch as she caught sight of a pair of pigeons hobbling toward her feet. Her expression appeared self-congratulatory as she surveyed Mother Nature in all its glory. That serene expression was…annoying.  

 

Turning back to her pile of magazines and textbooks she selected something more engaging, a book on criminal psychology. This selection captivated her wholeheartedly in comparison with her earlier choice.

 

Dreamily, she raised a gloved hand to her mouth before biting down with significant force on her right thumb. Sherlock felt his breath hitch at the sight. He was utterly mortified at his physiological response until he realized rightly it was only his apprehension about those _damn gloves_. Still, it was time to make a hasty retreat, lest her gorilla friend were to see him and accuse him of stalking this tedious woman. It was rather difficult not to entertain the idea of simply breaking the ape’s neck whenever he saw Alan. While Alan was at best an annoyance, the inclination to do any actual violence towards the man struck Sherlock as rather curious.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title taken from Tori Amos' "Liquid Diamonds"


	13. Start Your Engines

"Bored." Samantha complained to her computer screen. She stretched and pinched the bridge of her nose after having spent the entirety of her afternoon cataloging the latest gene sequences and firing off what seemed an insurmountable number of emails to her colleagues. At least Alan seemed to be in a relatively good mood—he'd spent the earlier part of this last week gauging her demeanor after her date with the Good Doctor John.

 

Noticing a lack of enthusiasm on her part he seemed to have deduced she was over the infatuation with his rival. In aggravation, Samantha deposited her belongings in her carryall and left the lab in silence. Now that a few days had passed since her date with John she had had some time to think about relationship goals and made some concrete resolutions for herself. She would simply have to refocus on her work and ignore her ever-increasing libido—Angela’s domain—that seemed to haunt her dreams at night more frequently than ever. _How could one lame date have gotten Her so damn activated_ _?_ She cursed to herself. As she boarded the tube she felt the beginnings of a migraine snake its way around her head. Tonight she'd have to take some Sumatriptan, which she despised as it made her less than alert. Ramen again for dinner she concluded, and hoped she could finally rest easy with the added benefit of a sedative in her system. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title taken from Tori Amos' "Liquid Diamonds"


	14. Cigarettes Recommended

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angela wakes up

_Fucking FINALLY,_ Angela thought to her herself as she sat up in the bed with vigor. _I thought she'd never go to sleep..._

Angela surveyed her surroundings briefly before hopping cheerfully out of the soft sheets, stretched languidly, and checked her phone. Ten o’clock. And not a moment too soon. With a snort of disgust she peeled off the fuchsia and lime green spotted gloves Samantha had chosen to sleep in. _How do you even find such hideous accessories in London?_ With an air of determination and haste Angela sauntered towards the bathroom—letting Samantha's plain cotton panties slide down her legs. She shivered with the chills of exhilaration at the prospect of unfettered freedom. As she lathered herself in the shower with her favorite lavender scented soap she went over her options for tonight's entertainment. Really it wasn't up for deliberation. The moment Detective Holmes touched her face Angela decided he should be taught a lesson. “The perfect cure for boredom,” she mused pleasantly as she admired her curves in the mirror above the sink. Rummaging through the closet for something suitably enticing her hands found an electric blue slinky dress she'd bought the last time she was "out". Before allowing Samantha to “take back the helm of the ship” Angela had been certain to hide the evidence in the very back of the closet, concealed within another garment bag for some frilly monstrosity. She knew Samantha would have seen the charges to her credit card after her exorbitant shopping excursion, but she also knew Samantha would be far too embarrassed to return any of her purchases should she discover their whereabouts. _Poor Samantha._ She really had quite a nice figure but hid her body in frumpy clothes and tacky tees.

 

The gloves that kept others at such a distance from her were however by far the worst items in her fashion entourage. It was too late for shopping tonight, so she helped herself to some black stilettos hidden in what Samantha probably assumed contained Christmas decorations. Angela lined her lids in a seductive cat eye and applied her favorite shade of lipstick. “Blood red to knock him dead,” she giggled. She turned to appraise herself in the mirror, flashed her teeth, and licked her lips before exiting the flat, hips swinging to and fro into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title taken from Tori Amos' "Lady In Blue"


	15. Boys You Play Well Into Midnight, Can I Join You?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Angela finally meet.

Something about the way Miss Intern's expression changed when she bit against the leather glove into her tender flesh had Sherlock feeling sour and discomposed. Why did he leave then? He had numerous cases he could have made inquiries about at the lab. Or he could have made some up. He had no reason to feel so self-conscious—other than the possibility his interest in her might be misinterpreted as romantic in some way, or worse, as an obsessive infatuation. There was no merit in pursuing this matter with her any further. The woman was clearly looking for attention or deranged in some way. Still her reaction to his question about the gloves hinted at more than poor fashion sense. The flicker of sapphire irises flashed savagely behind his own eyelids as he drew the bow in his hand taught, resulting in a horrendous protestation from his violin. 

 

John had left for the night. Presumably for a date since he grabbed that ridiculous tweed jacket on his way out the door. After an hour of frantic pacing Sherlock cast a look about the room and decided he was in desperate need of nicotine. This time he’d hidden his favorite cigarettes in a hand carved compartment in the wall behind the refrigerator. John had already found this place once holding much worse paraphernalia and Sherlock was certain it wouldn’t occur to John to look twice for anything new so long as he appeared sober. Hurriedly he pocketed his carton and matches in his coat before rushing out the door. Tonight was going to be at least pack’s worth of thinking and John probably wouldn’t be back till morning.

 

Sherlock strode out onto the street below and took a deep breath of fresh air, en route to his favored alley to smoke. He had almost arrived at his destination when the figure of a woman caught his attention. At first his mind refused to make the connection and he wasn’t certain until she turned her face towards the light under the street lamp. _Miss Intern?_ His eyes widened as he took a careful inventory.

 

Chocolate curls cascaded about her head and her lips were painted a very pretty ruby red. Black patent leather 4 inch heels. A rippling royal blue evening gown with shimmering silk overlay cut 16” below her pubis. A tiny jeweled Italian leather clutch. And miraculously… _sans gants._ Her fingers were _absolutely naked._

 

Sherlock’s spine straightened as he cataloged this new information—his brain launched into overdrive with a multitude of infinite explanations to account for her bizarre transformation. Could this _really_ be the same woman who had a penchant for wearing Dr. Who tee shirts with threadbare poly blend skirts and dreadfully shabby shoes? With her hair bound in a tight ponytail in a plastic tie?

 

It wasn’t as though Intern had simply changed her clothes and removed the gloves from her fashion repertoire. Though her physical characteristics were exactly the same she carried herself with the easy confidence of a high borne aristocrat. Across the street a burly man beckoned to her while making an obscene gesture with his hand cupped around his crotch. She didn’t respond. In fact she didn’t even blush or acknowledge his existence in the slightest. With poise and grace she glided towards Sherlock on the sidewalk. Every muscle in his body stiffened as she drew closer, and something in his brain shot a signal that she might actually be some sort of threat. She came to an abrupt halt approximately two feet away and tilted her chin slightly; briefly taking stock of his form. Two glittering sapphire orbs regarded him directly, and her lips parted in a dazzling smile.

 

“Good evening, Mr. Holmes,” she began as she opened the jeweled pouch to reveal a gilded cigarette case. Neatly folding it apart she deposited a slender cigarette in her mouth and continued, “I don’t suppose you have a light?”

 

For a moment Sherlock stood speechless as he attempted to reconcile his data. 18 carat diamond teardrop earrings grazed her pale shoulders and twinkled in the light as a gentle breeze brushed past. _Cartier? Surely not on her salary._ And Intern didn’t smoke; he would have smelled it on her before…And yet, she held a cigarette aloft in her hand expectantly.

 

“Mr. Holmes?” she added with what sounded to him like mock concern. “Are you quite alright?” Her eyebrows knit slightly and she turned to look around, as though in an effort to find another person she could ask.

 

Sherlock attempted to clear his throat, which seemed to have suddenly gone quite dry. This was not Miss Intern at all.

 

And she was definitely going to be a problem.

 

Suppressing a shiver and bowing ever so apologetically he fished the little box of matches out of his pocket and proceeded to strike one against the sandpaper on the side. Straightening himself, he cupped his hands over the flickering flame as he raised it towards her puckered lips. She averted her eyes, then inhaled deeply as the cigarette caught, its embers glowing an intense orange against the paleness of her cheeks.

 

“Mmmm” she hummed with imminent satisfaction. “Thank you, Mr. Holmes.” She sucked on the cigarette again and gently blew a cloud of billowy smoke above her head, her mouth making a delicate little oval. Her brows furrowed momentarily in decision. “Mr. Holmes, would you care to join me for a smoke? There’s a lovely café down the street.”

 

Sherlock felt his chest tighten, then remembered himself. “Madame,” he lied, “You have me at a disadvantage. I must apologize but I seem to have forgotten your name.” He tried to control the tinge of derision in his voice but there was a definite undercurrent of irritation. _Just so_ , he reasoned. He would not be intimidated or taken aback by this display of femininity from the otherwise decidedly unappealing Miss Intern. Especially as how this “surreptitious” meeting was a perfect opportunity to gather more data.

 

“Angela,” she answered sardonically as she cocked her head before continuing. “And Mr. Holmes, I do believe you know _exactly_ who I am.” She pursed her lips in a little pout and pulled another drag from her cigarette. The intensity of her scrutiny was only paralleled by his annoyance.

 

“…Angela,” he muttered softly. He glanced around, half expecting John to pop out from a corner guffawing with laughter, before he continued, “I don’t suppose you’d like to accompany me to my office? It’s a short stroll from here and it appears we might have much to discuss.” Sherlock felt a rise of exhilaration. The answer to his earlier apprehension about this odd little creature was finally blooming into fruition. Furthermore, Sherlock rationalized, John couldn’t possibly argue with him inviting a guest who just _happened_ to smoke in the office, let alone one as fascinating as this. A chance to cross-examine Miss Intern in close proximity—out of her natural element and in his—was irresistible, even if it did put his flat mate in a terribly awkward position should he return home before she was gone.

 

“Hmmm,” she purred to herself. “I suppose that would be alright,” before flashing a predatory glance into his eyes. “Yes. Please lead the way. I am in your care.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title taken from Tori Amos' "Lady in Blue"


	16. I Hear She Still Grants Forgiveness

Sherlock followed the gentle sway of Angela’s hips as she ascended the stairs in his flat. Her movements were sultry but not indecent, and he noted with considerable apprehension that she was almost undoubtedly _not_ wearing undergarments by the way the silk rustled across her curves. She stepped aside at the landing and allowed him to open and hold the door for her, nodding in her approval of this gentlemanly gesture. As he reached to hang up his coat and gloves he paused before turning on the lights in case she was preparing some sort of amorous attack. But Angela strolled into the center of the room nonchalantly then made her way over to the fireplace, taking stock of his domain.

 

Sherlock wasn’t sure if he was relieved or irritated with her sexual bravado or lack thereof. Had this been what John experienced during his date? No wonder his flatmate had been confused. She took note of the bizarre décor in his sitting room with reserved inquisitiveness. Her azure eyes flitted about taking in her surroundings—he imagined she was making a mental list of potential topics of polite conversation or deciding what object would best suit for use as a weapon. He would have chosen the riding crop he kept stashed in the umbrella stand. But she neither confirmed nor denied its existence, though she had indeed taken notice and then pause. A small part of him wanted to hear her squeak when she spotted his prize—a human skull positioned majestically on the mantelpiece. But he was stunned to find her holding it in her hands gingerly as soon as she’d spotted it. Her fingers caressed the temples and teeth as her eyes admired the fine bone structure.

 

“How lovely,” she cooed. “Wherever did you get this?” Examining the sutured bones she hummed a little. “Hmm…male. Mid 20’s I’d say,” then spoke to it directly, “Aren’t _you_ _darling_! Mr. Holmes I’m rather envious of your collection.” She gestured to the assortment of oddities and returned his prized possession on the fireplace. She traced a few of the books in his bookcase delicately then added with seemingly genuine delight, “How marvelous!”

 

Struck by her assertion of knowledge and gratuitous flattery as opposed to a spectacle of intimidation, Sherlock was dubious. People who entered this room most definitely did _not_ find it _enchanting_. In an effort to regain control of the conversation he directed her attention to a luxurious velvet chaise lounge. She complied sociably, alighting herself and crossing her legs. This gave him a better view of her stiletto heels. Christian Louboutin. Before sitting himself, he secreted an ashtray from the top drawer of his credenza and set it on the coffee table between them. She nodded and smiled as they both took out cigarettes. Their eyes locked again as he lit hers and then his own with subdued apprehension. Sherlock reclined into his chair and prepared for logic based combat. “Thank you, Miss Jones,” he began tentatively. “To what do I owe the pleasure of our meeting? Surely it wasn’t mere chance?”

 

Angela exhaled a little laugh. “Miss Jones is it now? So you _do_ remember. I was really rather disappointed you might have forgotten. Of course,” she tutted her tongue, leveling her gaze reproachfully, “I was hoping you wouldn’t forget every woman you manhandled when your questions were not answered to your timely satisfaction. It was _very_ uncouth of you to worry me so, Mr. Holmes.” She smiled winningly. “But then here you are behaving like a proper gentleman now. And please _do_ call me Angela. I feel it best given the circumstances. It might… _limit_ some confusion…for _both_ parties.” Angela put a special sort of emphasis on _limit_ and _both_ as she raised one eyebrow in silent question.

 

“Yes. That was… _unfortunate_ and… _regretful_.” Sherlock cleared his throat and pursued gamely with some reservation, “I do sincerely apologize for having frightened you.” He detested this. Hated to apologize, but recognized this exchange for what it was—a game of psychological warfare. Some sacrifices were necessary.

 

“Your apology is accepted.” She replied with a little smirk. “Now. On to business!” Angela added merrily.

 

“And what business would that be exactly Miss, er… _Angela_?” Sherlock wanted to lean forward and extend his elbows to his knees but opted for wrapping his fingers around the arms of his chair. He mustn’t show too much interest. Sherlock held his breath and felt his throat go dry. His eyes were glistening with anticipation but could no longer be bothered to hide his attentiveness.

 

“Well,” she began and looked at him squarely, “I’d like a job.”

 

“Of course,” he said as he slapped one knee triumphantly. “ _Naturally you would_. But I’m afraid I don’t subscribe to those sorts of ‘ _endeavors’_.” _Of course she was a talonneur_ and _Angela_ was her _street name_. Where else would she have acquired the outrageously lavish jewelry and attire she donned this evening? It was no great secret Sherlock came from an affluent background—she must have decided to capitalize on that knowledge by tantalizing him with those ridiculous gloves. The dreadful poly blend tee shirt amalgamation that Miss Intern called a wardrobe was her cover for other “tastes”. He began to sneer. Why else would she have been ostensibly waiting for him in the street? John had undoubtedly been a hapless victim in her little charade. The mystery had finally been unraveled and Sherlock felt it was time she should be leaving.

 

Angela’s eyes registered the tiniest glimmer of hostility. Then, to his surprise she craned her supple neck and laughed; her earrings shimmering as her laughter chimed like little bells in his ears.

 

Damnable woman. _Disappointing_ woman. Sherlock swore at himself for being so foolish as to be taken in by a strumpet and his own inquisitive nature.

 

When Angela finished snickering she wiped a tear from her eye. “Oh Mr. Holmes,” she went on, “ You really are not as clever as I’d hoped.”

 

 _Now this was unmistakably insulting._ He flinched and drew his hand into a tight fist.

 

“Mr. Holmes,” she ridiculed, “Do you _really_ think I came here to seduce _you_? _You?_ I mean honestly! How _gauche_. _Were_ I to even offer you such an arrangement you could never afford my services.”

 

“I must assume some have had the pleasure,” he goaded through gritted teeth.

 

“Oh my, this simply won’t do. Now you have insulted my honor.” She tried to look wounded and averted her eyes. But he was no fool. This was exactly where she wanted him, and he was no longer amused.

 

“Surely you jest. _Anyone_ could tell what you’re up to here,” he shot angrily, feeling the heat rise in his cheeks. He noted with irritation it was becoming difficult to control the volume of his speech.

 

“No.” she answered softly. This time he sensed she might _have_ been hurt. “Truly. I did not intend to give you the impression I was here to sell my body.”

 

Sherlock relished being the shrewdest man in any room. Whether that room happened to be filled with crooks or common idiots he _always_ had the upper hand. He never lost his composure. But this _woman_ …this _creature_ … was mystifying and the game had become precipitously uncomfortable. Injuring others was second nature to him—aside from his daunting intellect it was practically what defined him as a human being. And yet…with her… he wasn’t feeling comforted by his superiority. Could he, of all people, really have misinterpreted this situation? “I—I am …sorry…” he stammered slightly. “Please. Do explain.”

 

Appreciatively, Angela regained her posture and pined, “It’s just that…I’m so terribly _bored_.”

 

Sherlock felt his eyebrows rise considerably but remained taciturn.

 

“I am well aware of what my appearance must have implied so I forgive you for misreading the situation. It’s just…that given the nature of your work I was rather hoping I might be” she paused thoughtfully, “of use to you.”

 

Right. Well, that _was_ an entirely appealing prospect. A _much_ more logical train of thought. As she was now Angela was stunning. Not a modern beauty per se, but elegant and mesmerizing. Occasionally the criminal elements from which he and John required information were members of upper class society. It would almost assuredly be advantageous to have a woman of such high caliber that either of them (mostly him) could employ as a distraction while infiltrating some of the venues where two single men might otherwise stand out.

 

“Hmmmm…” he began cautiously. “You do realize the kind of work that we do involves risk to life and limb? Or worse. Can you really say you would want to expose yourself to that kind of danger?”

 

Angela’s eyes widened in excitement. “Absolutely!”

 

“And,” he continued hesitantly, “I would not pay you.” Ah yes, this would be the point of contention. He was not planning to fund a debutante’s wardrobe even for the convenience of an undercover operation.

 

“That would not be a problem,” she answered indifferently. “Although,” she said, glancing towards the kitchen with a wrinkled nose. “I might be able to find you a proper maid. Really, Mr. Holmes your kitchen smells like decaying flesh.”

 

Sherlock could not help but smile at this. t _was_ decaying flesh. Human flesh more accurately. And aside from that, there was a plethora of other vile things she hadn’t yet seen in the fridge that would almost certainly make her squeal with disdain. “Are you perchance offering your services for that position?” he mused facetiously.

 

“Hmmm,” she negated firmly shaking her head. “That is not my area of expertise. But I _do_ happen to know someone who could be of assistance in that regard. Would you be interested in a deal? My services for hers?” Her eyes gleamed with the most hopeful and simultaneously wicked expression.

 

Sherlock quite preferred this side of her. “Yes. I believe that could indeed be arranged.” Then added, “Temporarily of course. Until we can see if you are up to filling the responsibilities of your tasks, I would be obliged to have your assistance in the matter of employing a housekeeper for a reasonable wage.” John had always been the one to clean up Sherlock’s experiments in the kitchen. And, seeing as how he was going to be making things very, _very_ awkward for his flat mate, Sherlock thought perhaps John would be more amenable to this arrangement. He himself, he wagered, would be more amenable to living without John’s constant complaining and the unfortunate premature removal of several of his projects into the waste bin.

 

“Perfect!” Angela beamed then selected a pen and pad from the coffee table. “Here is her number. Please call tomorrow to let her know of our arrangement. She will be absolutely _thrilled_.”

 

“And how will I be in touch with you?” Sherlock questioned, somewhat perplexed.

 

“Ah...well, she will let me know when you have need of me. Please…don’t hesitate to ask. I am at your disposal anytime.” Angela rose to her feet, offered him the paper, and made her way to the door. “I’ll see myself out. And Mr. Holmes” she said with a smile, “I am really looking forward to seeing you again.”

 

“And I you Angela,” he answered pleasantly enough, standing as she exited the office before returning to his seat. Her lavender scent still lingered in the air.

 

For a few moments he sat motionless, contemplating the promise of newfound adventure and palming the paper she had given him in his hand tenderly. As he unfolded its crease to commit her number to memory he was astounded to discover it was the same number Miss Intern had given John. Of course Sherlock had had a peek. A pang of perplexity wafted through the archives of his cerebrum. But there was no mistake. Come tomorrow Angela would be cleaning his kitchen.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title taken from Tori Amos' "Liquid Diamonds"


	17. I Can Play Too

Angela hadn’t expected her meeting with Mr. Holmes to be so splendid. At first she _had_ intended to seduce him. His instincts were spot on. But his reluctance to partake of her advances had left her enthralled. Lesser men would have pinned her against the door and fucked her with wild abandon the moment they were alone together. Such men worshiped her, lavishing her with gifts for her affection. Well, her attention anyway.

 

But after visiting his office she decided it would be much more entertaining to play with him a little more first. He would be begging for her soon enough. _Finally_. _Finally she had met someone who would challenge her._ What’s more, it would be so thrilling to join in the chase, to solve mysteries and engage in the exploits of the detective and his companion. John wasn’t nearly as intriguing, though she had to admit he was very easy on the eyes. Still, the Good Doctor’s qualities paled in comparison to those of Sherlock Holmes.

 

What divine expressions the detective had revealed to her. He _had_ been tempted. Angela knew what men looked like when they wanted to possess her. She touched her lips and probed her tongue wondering raptly what he would taste like. “ _Those beautiful eyes,”_ she purred…feeling herself become wet with anticipation. In the past she would have been too impatient to enjoy her meal. But for a man like Mr. Holmes, she would need to take her time and draw out his curiosity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title taken from Tori Amos' "Lady in Blue"


	18. The Camera Is Rolling, It’s Easy Like 1-2-3

Samantha awoke feeling as though she hadn't slept at all. Smacking her lips groggily, she realized her mouth tasted of stale cigarette smoke. _Oh no. Oh God, please no._ In a panic she examined her hands but her gloves were gone. _Fuuuuuuck_ … She scanned the room for signs of other occupants. It was rare, but occasionally Angela had been known to bring a man home to spend the night or left her to wake up in some stranger's bed. So far so good...she was alone. " _What did you do??"_ She accused Angela mentally. 

 

 _"Only what I had to darling. I did it for us."_ Angela chided softly. 

 

"I'll thank you not to do anything at all, Angela. You don't possess the ability to differentiate between 'good for us' and “disastrous." 

 

 _We shall see,_ Angela purred contentedly. 

 

Samantha yawned and straightened herself. Her eyes caught sight of the clock and she shot out of bed. Only had half an hour till she had to be at the lab. "You could have at least left me an alarm Angela!" She cried as she threw on a tee shirt from her closet. 

 

 _You needed your beauty rest. Oh you will have plans later, dear. Take those jeans I left on the chair,_ Angela commanded.

 

"I very much doubt it. I have no interest in entertaining you today. We _will_ be discussing this after I get off work." Samantha grabbed her skirt  & slipped on her heels at a furious pace.

 

 _Suit yourself, but I really think you're going to wish you had those jeans..._ Angela warned. 

 

Samantha scowled with resentment, and shoved them into her bag. When Angela behaved like this it was better to be prepared than walk into a minefield. She flew out the door, pulling a spare set of gloves out of her lab bag and made her way to the station.

 

This was going to be a long day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title taken from Tori Amos' "Beauty Queen"


	19. He’s Gonna Change My Name

Normally Samantha didn't keep her phone within hearing distance at work simply because she didn't know anyone who would call other the lab. Angela had not been forthcoming with her plans as Samantha went through the motions of her day. That reticence filled her with anxiety and –most annoyingly—a bit of exhilaration. The chance Angela _had_ done something beneficial was possible—her other half had been more or less her companion—most specifically at times when Samantha had become overwhelmed with fear. The problem was that she couldn’t anticipate or control what exactly Angela did with her body in tow.

 

Samantha jumped when her phone began buzzing after lunch. The little gasp she made startled Alan. With a wince of trepidation she looked at the caller ID. Then her hands began to shake. _It was John_. Steeling herself and taking a deep breath, she touched the little green button of death. 

 

"…Samantha?" John's voice had the definite undertone of awkwardness. 

 

 _Oh God, please don't let me have slept with him,_ she prayed to herself squinting her eyes shut and preparing for the worst. “Yes, hello John. How are you doing?” She answered casually.

 

“I’m uh, I'm good. Thanks. Say, Sherlock asked me to call you.”

 

Samantha thought she heard someone shouting in the background. She didn’t reply, but held her breath. _Could_ she have slept with Mr. Magnifying Glass instead of the Good Doctor? Angela _had_ wanted to punish him. _What could she have done?_ Her head reeled and her chest grew tight.

 

“YES, fine I’ll _tell_ her!!” John’s voice was muffled then became clear again. “Sherlock said you came by the flat last night.”

 

Samantha imagined her worst nightmares coming to fruition. _It was all over._ Had John called to laugh at her? Was he angry? It wouldn’t be the first time someone had called her to berate her and accuse her of horribly embarrassing behavior after Angela had taken her body out for a stroll.

 

“Oh?” Samantha whimpered. She couldn’t risk lying now. Better not to commit to any story, she reasoned smartly. It wasn’t as though she knew the truth anyway.

 

“Ta, he said to tell you he’d accepted your offer of a job. Are you sure you really want to be doing this? It’s pretty messy work.” John wasn’t angry. He was concerned. Samantha let out a sigh of immeasurable relief.

 

“Uh, well. I guess I’m sure I’m up to the task?” Samantha tried to sound convincing. If Angela had gone to his office she could only imagine what sort of job this would entail. She would have to speak with the detective alone. She didn’t want to risk John becoming aware of her “situation”—assuming the detective hadn’t told him she was bat shit crazy already. “Ah…why exactly are you the one calling me though?” she asked, hoping to speak with Mr. Holmes or glean more information.

 

“Right. Yeah. I ask myself that a lot. He doesn’t use the phone. He might text though. A lot.”

 

“Tell her I said to be here at 6pm sharp! Not a minute late or the deal is off!” a severe voice added in the background. “Text her the address now John. We have _work_ to do.”

 

 _A deal??_ What the hell could he possibly be referring to? Samantha was so taken aback when she tried to protest her voice came out in a squeak.

 

“Sorry I have to go. I guess I’ll send you the address. Again. And hey, Samantha, no hard feelings about our date. It was nice but…” John tried to go on before being interrupted again.

 

“JOHN!!!” came the detective’s voice blaring in the earpiece.

 

Before she could speak the phone had been disconnected. She stared at her phone in abject horror. After several minutes she looked up and realized Alan was staring at her—her mouth was still open with the un-uttered syllables of the words she couldn’t form.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title taken from Tori Amos' "Mother"


	20. Circus Girl Without a Safety Net

“What are we doing here, Angela?” Samantha groaned to herself as she looked at her phone. The address John had sent her—221B Baker Street—didn’t _look_ haunted. She wasn’t sure what to expect, and Angela still wasn’t speaking to her. “For once I could really use your help right now.”

 

With a deep sigh Samantha straightened her shoulders and knocked. To her surprise an elderly woman answered the door. “Oh, hello dear!” She exclaimed with hands clasped as though she’d been waiting all her life for this young woman to arrive. “I’m Mrs. Hudson. Please come in, the boys are upstairs.” Mrs. Hudson gestured to the landing and went back into her own apartment with a winking smile.

 

“Ah…thank you,” Samantha murmured, wondering why this woman should be so pleased to see her, and even less enthusiastic about the wink.

 

As she came onto the landing Samantha imagined this must be what convicted criminals felt like as they stepped up to meet their maker on the gallows. She swallowed hard and tapped on the door faintly. “Um…hello?”

 

With a violent swoosh the door flew open and she was greeted with the austere visage of one Mr. Sherlock Holmes. He knelt his face into hers and her jaw fell. Azure eyes analyzed her then narrowed with considerable scrutiny. His gaze dropped to her gloved hands and he grunted with disappointment before grabbing her arm and yanking her into the flat with alacrity.

 

Samantha froze in the center of the sitting room, shaking and grasping her carryall with both hands. Wildly, she let her eyes roam around the room seeking sanctuary. She noticed something strange in the umbrella stand near her feet. _Is that a riding crop? Oh god._ As her attention wandered she gasped at what appeared to be a human skull. A real one. Every muscle in her body tensed as she prepared to flee.

 

The detective slammed the door and strode around her as though to inspect her. His eyes traveled up and down her frame and she flinched. Just when she thought she couldn’t tolerate any more madness he suddenly let out an exasperated moan and landed with a thud on a leather reclining chair.

 

“Well,” he began with hands up as though conceding surrender, “I suppose it would be _you_.”

 

Samantha felt her face redden. He must have expected her “better half”. She felt a lump in her throat with the sting of rejection. The word “ _you_ ” seemed to echo in her ears indefinitely.

 

“Well…yes. I suppose it would,” she proceeded carefully, then added, “Where’s John?”

 

“Oh, he’s out fetching something or other. Who knows,” he grumbled irritably as his legs jiggled an impatient staccato beat.

 

“Yes…well. I don’t know what sort of job it is you want me to do,” she began then paused before nearly retching in disgust. “My god, Mr. Holmes what is that _SMELL_?”

 

For some reason that comment elucidated a smile. Or a shark’s grin. Samantha glanced in the direction of the kitchen and her eyes began to water.

 

“That, my dear Miss Jones, is your _job_.” Detective Holmes smirked again wryly. “I had thought that might be a problem, what with your predilection for _avoiding_ germs. But last night you _assured_ me you were the right fit for the job.”

 

“Did I then,” Samantha scowled inwardly at Angela, who she was sure had tumbled backwards in maniacal fits of laughter. “Mr. Holmes,” she began in earnest but was halted by the detective’s hand in the air.

 

“Sherlock, if you please. If you are going to be cleaning my kitchen I think we can dispense with formalities.” He nodded for her to continue.

 

“Umm… _ok_ …what _exactly_ happened here last night?” This was as brave as Samantha was going to be—or at least she thought. The decaying protein matter in the kitchen had taken a toll on her reticence in addressing the issue at hand.

 

“You really don’t remember, do you,” Sherlock said standing up and walking over to inspect her again.

 

“No. I’m afraid I don’t. I’m sure you’ve probably figured that out already though. Oh my god! Are you blackmailing me or something?” She took a step back towards the door.

 

“God, no!” He dismissed her accusation casually. “I wouldn’t dream of such a thing.”

 

He seemed to be enjoying this a bit too much, and Samantha realized she was becoming annoyed. She forced herself to straighten and drew up her chin. “Then what is it you want from me? I’m not the woman you’re looking for _now_ am I?”

 

“Actually, it would seem that you’re _both_ the women I’m looking for,” Sherlock corrected her before gesturing to the couch and returning to his seat.

 

Samantha eyed the couch warily before inching her way closer. “Nothing has been decided yet. For one, I’m not cleaning that mess for free,” she huffed a bit as she sank down on the cushions.

 

“Naturally I would never presume such a thing. I was thinking one hundred pounds a week sounded reasonable. Given your… _expertise_.” He said without acrimony.

 

Samantha felt her carryall drop from her hands suddenly and spill onto the floor. “A…a week?” she squeaked. Then added hastily, “I’m not doing anything illegal am I?”

 

“It sounds as though you accept then. And no, Miss…er…Samantha. You will not be doing anything illegal. Far from it.” His eyes danced at her sudden willingness. “ _You_ _said_ you needed a job.”

 

Samantha wondered briefly if she wasn’t being set up for something awful. The truth was she did need a job. Desperately. Her student loans were killing her. Maybe she’d be able to eat real food for a change. Then she hesitated. “Wait. You said _I_ told you I needed a job. I’m guessing that means…”

 

“Angela was very persuasive,” he answered briskly.

 

“Oh.” Samantha looked down at her gloved hands in her lap. “Did she…did I…was I…” she stammered.

 

“A perfect lady.” Sherlock quantified seriously without malice.

 

Samantha felt the relief wash over her and pursued, “Does John know?”

 

“No, he does not. Though I’m sure you should not worry yourself over it should he find out. Which he most certainly would should you accept this position,” Sherlock added matter-of-factly.

 

Samantha let her gaze drift to the window and bit her lip. She wanted to ask this man what _he_ thought of her. However rude his demeanor she was still star struck at the idea of being in the detective’s presence. She didn’t feel worthy even to clean his kitchen with… well with whatever was making that horrendous stench. Adding to her fears was the fact that he knew her secret. “If…if I didn’t take this position,” she ventured carefully, “would you tell anyone about my… _my circumstances_?” She couldn’t bear to look at him as she uttered those words.

 

“No, I would not.” He managed to sound almost compassionate.

 

“And I could…I could wear my gloves?” She looked up sheepishly for his answer. It was so horribly embarrassing, but this was one point on which she needed reassurance.

 

Sherlock measured her carefully before answering, “You may. Do we have a deal?”

 

Samantha nodded and tried to force a smile. “Thank you, Sherlock. Really. Thank you.” She let out her breath and laughed, at first nervously and then genuinely.

 

The detective’s eyes widened in surprise. He must not have expected her to thank him. Perhaps he wasn’t such a lost cause after all.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title taken from Tori Amos' "Mother"
> 
> Also, if anyone wants to Brit pick for me please let me know. I have literally no idea what I'm doing here.


	21. Do This Long Enough You Get a Taste For It

Samantha stood in the bathroom looking herself over after she pulled on her jeans. Thank God Angela had decided to be kind for a change. She searched her mind for her constant companion but it seemed Angela was taking a sick day—probably on account of the impending cleaning duty. Samantha was conflicted about her feelings towards Angela now. On the one hand she was grateful for a job, and terribly excited to have a front row seat in the life of Sherlock Holmes. On the other hand Angela had taken an incredible risk in exposing her. Regardless of her intentions they should really have a talk once her job was finished. 

 

Samantha exited the bathroom to find John unpacking groceries in the kitchen. John looked up with surprise and smiled. 

 

"You're really sure you want to do this? Have you looked in the fridge yet?" John quirked his eyebrows expectantly. 

 

"Well," Samantha sighed, "I suppose now is as good a time as any." Closing her eyes she opened the fridge. If she had decided to play the game "which of these things is not like the other", she wagered food would be the odd thing out. Among the flasks and beakers containing mystery fluids three human eyeballs caught her attention first. She stepped back and shut the door abruptly. 

 

"See?" John stated. "And then there’s the pig intestines in the corner by the trash."

 

" _Pig... Pig intestines_?" In disbelief she forced herself to look. 

 

"Ta. Originally they were in the sink but I forced him to relocate his pet project."

 

"Do you ah...and the eyeballs? Those...those are _human_."  

 

 _"All human!"_ Sherlock chimed from the entrance.

 

" _Oh_." Samantha muttered meekly then wavered. "And this is legal?"

 

"Quite!" Sherlock looked incredulous at the idea she should suggest such a thing were not. 

 

"Scotland Yard tends to let him have his way," John elaborated. "As do I," he added with a sardonic grin.

 

"Ah. Well, ok then," Samantha put her hands on her hips and said firmly, "I'm going to need some heavy black trash bags, some nitrile gloves, and a HAZMAT suit." She re-opened the fridge and eyed the contents suspiciously. "I'll have this thrown out immediately."

 

"You most certainly will not!" Sherlock protested in horror. 

 

John groaned and rolled his eyes. "Surely we could let her remove _that_ ”, he begged, gesturing to the pungent bloody mass emitting almost visible steam in the plastic container.

 

"Not yet. It's almost perfect. Don't touch _anything_ unless I tell you." He shot her a warning glance as he turned his back.

 

Samantha began to understand why the pay was so high. "Then what exactly would you have me do??"

 

Sherlock paused and answered, "Clean the bathroom and tidy the study. After I have examined the intestines tomorrow you may remove them. Don't be silly about wearing a HAZMAT suit—it’s all perfectly safe. Probably." 

 

Samantha looked at John doubtfully, and he shrugged helplessly. "And the eyeballs and mystery meats in the fridge?" she queried.

 

"Those are…" he began thoughtfully. "I'm still saving those. You can get the cleaning supplies from Mrs. Hudson downstairs. I expect she will be more than happy to oblige."

 

Samantha gawked imagining that poor woman hunched over a big black sack sloughing intestines down the front stoop and into the bin in the alley. Why didn’t people report this to the police?

 

"Well???" Sherlock waved a backwards dismissal, "Off you go!”

 

“Is he always like this?” Samantha asked John with exasperation.

 

“Basically. But don’t worry. He’ll grow on you. Let’s have coffee later?”

 

“Yes,” Samantha smiled a bit shyly. “I’d like that. I’ll be the one covered in human remains.”

 

“Coming, John?” Sherlock reappeared around the corner and eyed the both of them with disdain.

 

John gave her an apologetic glance and followed his partner—presumably off to some tantalizing adventure, leaving her with quite literally a bloody mess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title taken from Tori Amos' "Code Red"


	22. Somebody Leave a Light On

“Alright, Sherlock. I’ve been a good sport, but I think it’s time to do some explaining. What exactly is going on?” John crossed his arms disapprovingly. “One minute you can’t stand the sight of her, and the next you’ve got me ringing her up to come clean up your science projects.”

“She asked for a job so I gave her one. I didn't think you’d object to getting a maid. And I had you call because she would never have agreed to come otherwise.” Sherlock had thought having John call was a rather clever solution to the possibility Angela and Miss Intern might not be on the same page. Not seeing Angela greet him this afternoon was initially disappointing, but then turned into a revelation. The idea of seeing the proud Angela covered in filth delighted him but he also relished seeing Samantha squirm in his presence much more than expected. After their meeting Sherlock was shocked she had not been made privy of the rest of the arrangement—specifically the part where she played the role of distraction and possibly even bait in the solving of cases. “I am at your disposal anytime,” had been Angela’s exact words, but how in blazes was he supposed to obtain her services when Samantha clearly lacked any memory of the previous evening’s consultation? Before this afternoon Sherlock had hoped the woman was simply leading a double life using a different name—not entirely two different women inhabiting the same body. He had never actually encountered a case of multiple personality disorder and found the prospect of further observation fascinating. With that in mind, he knew the person who’d need the most convincing wouldn’t be Samantha, but his partner John.

“That doesn’t make sense. If she asked you for a job why would she refuse to come if you called the next day?” John was completely oblivious. Clearly he hadn’t had the pleasure of meeting Angela on their date. Sherlock was somewhat alarmed to find that notion comforting.

“Because she has multiple personality disorder,” Sherlock stated this as though it would be apparent to even the most common of fools. He refused to let John know he hadn’t known for sure until he interviewed Miss Intern only a few moments before they left.

John abruptly stopped walking and Sherlock turned to face him. He’d been waiting for this. John was definitely angry.

“Sherlock,” John muttered quietly, “Please tell me you aren’t taking advantage of this woman.” Apparently it hadn’t occurred to John his partner would be wrong in her diagnosis. Which made sense, because he was never wrong.

“I haven’t asked her to do anything she didn’t already suggest herself,” Sherlock said shortly and waited. John’s expression was pained.

“And what exactly do you plan to have her do?”

“Clean the kitchen obviously.”

“And?” John met his eyes squarely.

“And provide assistance on cases.” Sherlock had really hoped John would understand the necessity for Angela’s support on his own. Even if John might be disappointed to find out about Samantha’s illness, surely he would come to see the logic of this plan once he’d met Angela. “She isn’t going to do anything she doesn't want to do,” Sherlock repeated emphatically.

John shook his head in disbelief and stayed silent the rest of the way to the crime scene. This conversation was not over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title taken from Tori Amos' "Mother"


	23. Just In Case I Like the Dancing

“How did it go?” Samantha asked cheerfully when Sherlock opened the door. She had spent the last several hours scrubbing the bathroom (who kept gall bladders in a soap dish in the bathroom?) and shuffling the papers the detective had strewn about the floor, mentally marking the most interesting ones for later reading. With the eyeballs in the fridge to keep her company as she cleaned she felt she should have some other perks. Hearing about a case, she reasoned, was one of them too.

“Splendid,” Sherlock answered brusquely before surveying the room. He swung open the fridge to make certain his prized collection was still intact then examined the intestines appreciatively. “Hmm…yes, that will do. You may remove them now.” 

That was it? Samantha wondered what he could possibly have deduced from this observation. 

But before Samantha could question him further he was out the door, leaving her sputtering the request for further instructions in her mind. John pushed past him wordlessly and waited at the door in obvious distress.

Their eyes met fleetingly and she dropped her gaze to the floor. Oh. So he knew then. She had really hoped to have more time to compose her explanation about her condition to John. She steeled herself and prepared for the worst.

“He’s going to use you, you know.” She heard John say unwaveringly. 

“I know.”

“Do you though?” John sounded angry. “Do you have any idea what you’ve agreed to?”

“You aren’t talking about cleaning this bloody mess, are you John?” She suspected Angela had intended to do more than sit on the sidelines, mainly because Samantha longed to join the two men in their exploits herself. And after all, when it came right down to it, Samantha did understand she and Angela were the same person. 

“And you’re fine with this?” 

“Aren’t you?” Samantha suddenly countered, must to her surprise and certainly to John’s.

“Is this why you didn’t want to see me again? Why you disappeared?”

Samantha nodded slightly. “It’s part of the reason,” she admitted—feeling too ashamed to acknowledge that despite her fondness for him she wasn’t interested in John romantically. Suddenly Sherlock’s face flickered in her mind, and she quickly discharged the thought. “It’s just…that we…that I…” she stammered feebly.

“It’s ok, Samantha. I understand.” He took a step towards her before putting a hand on her shoulder and squeezing gently. “But you must promise to tell me if you need my help. We don’t know each other very well yet, but I’d like to be there for you. You know, if you feel like you’re in over your head…”

“Thank you, John.” Samantha supposed one had to be a saint to put up with Sherlock’s…eccentricities. Perhaps hers weren’t so peculiar in comparison. 

“Right then,” John said decidedly. “Let’s get these intestines outside before I throw up.”

“Oh my God,” Samantha exhaled with relief, “I thought you’d never ask.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title taken from Tori Amos' "Mother"


End file.
